JohnnyZ
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[Castling] Chapter 57
🕑 Added 2025-02-25 06:51:32 +0000 UTCFinally, the big day arrived, and we were dragged out of bed at some ungodly hour—about four in the morning. I don’t think I’d ever been up that early in my life. We ate breakfast on autopilot, only properly waking up when we were already trudging through the morning chill and damp, following Dad along goat tracks in the dark.
Dad, of course, looked disgustingly cheerful compared to the rest of us, constantly glancing back and slowing down to throw out some supposedly encouraging words. Personally, as I shuffled along half-asleep, I couldn’t wrap my head around why we couldn’t just Apparate straight to the hill an hour and a half later instead of traipsing through the countryside at the crack of dawn. I mean, at least the Stoatshead Hill wasn’t too far, but Ginny’s grumbling behind me and Hermione’s occasional yelps whenever she tripped over a root weren’t exactly lifting my spirits. Especially not when I kept stepping into mole holes.
By the time we actually reached the hill, I was knackered, my lungs were burning, and I had properly decided that I needed to start exercising. I’d spent way too much time holed up with books, trying to cram everything at once.
But, of course, the fun wasn’t over yet. Now we had to crawl around in the grass looking for some random bit of rubbish that was apparently a portkey. Wizards, honestly. Would it kill them to just enchant the portkeys to activate at different times and hand them out with the tickets? Or at least tell people what to look for?
We would’ve been stuck wandering around in the dark for ages, but thankfully, the Diggorys turned up, rustling out of the bushes like a pair of overgrown badgers. After a short chat—where Amos spent most of the time throwing resentful glances at Harry, Hermione and Ginny sneaked looks at Cedric, and Cedric himself got caught up in a conversation with the twins—I nearly nodded off on my feet.
And then, finally, we were off.
Everything after that went just as expected. The only thing that really got to me was Mister Roberts. Reading about it in a book is one thing, but actually seeing it happen? It was disgusting. Heartless. Watching them wipe his memory over and over again, ten times a day, every single day, just because a bunch of wizards had decided to camp out here for a couple of weeks? It didn’t sit right with me at all. No one cared what that bloke was going through, how it was affecting him. It was just convenient for them. And these were regular wizards—not Death Eaters.
It made me think about Hermione, too—how she wiped her parents’ memories. The thought put me in an even fouler mood. She was always the first to jump in and defend anyone she thought was being treated unfairly, even when the rest of us rolled our eyes and told her to drop it. And yet… she’d done the exact same thing. The way people thought seemed to change when they got too deep into the magical world. Even someone as principled as her.
Still, once we started making our way to our campsite, my mood lifted a bit. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep making me morbid. Or the fact that I’d barely eaten and was freezing my arse off. But the sun was up now, the ground had dried, and I had other things to focus on. Everywhere I looked, there were witches and wizards from all over the world, magical tents of every kind, people out and about—proper excitement in the air.
I only remembered the twins and their stupid bet when I spotted Bagman. Should’ve asked Charlie to put a stake down for them too—he wouldn’t have minded. But I’d completely forgotten.
I pulled them aside and told them straight: stay away from Bagman. Claimed I’d overheard some Ministry workers talking about his debts to the goblins while waiting in line back at the Ministry. We’d gone through customs on the way back from the reserve—checking we hadn’t brought anything illegal into the country and all that—so it wasn’t a far-fetched story.
The twins looked a bit put out but took my word for it. At least they wouldn’t be losing money to Bagman. They’d still have enough left for some decent souvenirs.
Our spot was brilliant—stadium just past the trees, close enough to walk straight over. The only downside? The water pump was miles away, all the way near the caretaker’s hut. Dad decided we needed to hike all the way there first thing, despite the fact that our tent had a bloody bath in it. So clearly, it had water.
Turns out, though, magical taps don’t just conjure water out of thin air. The tents had built-in storage tanks—some could even refill automatically with the right charms, but it depended on how much you’d paid for the tent. Ours, apparently, wasn’t that fancy.
Dad, meanwhile, was buzzing, practically shaking with excitement as he clutched a hammer like it was his prized possession, eager to set up the tent by hand. I left him to it with Hermione and Harry, while the twins shot off to track down Lee Jordan’s campsite.
I started the fire with Ginny instead—Dad would’ve spent all day messing about with matches otherwise. A few scraps of paper, some dry twigs, and a handy Muggle lighter I’d brought along did the trick. Bit of smoke at first—everything was still damp from the morning dew—but it caught quickly.
Once the tents were up, Dad sent the three of us off to collect water while Ginny sorted out breakfast. By then, the sun was blazing, and the whole campsite was alive with activity. Every few steps, we ran into someone we knew.
Wood all but tackled Harry the moment he spotted him, launching into an excited rant about making second-string on some team. That took a solid twenty minutes to escape from. Then we ran into Seamus and Dean. I could tell this was going to drag on, so I slipped away while they were distracted and made my way over to Luna’s site.
Took me a while to find it. Their spot was right near the caretaker’s hut but off to the side, tucked close to the trees and the main road.
I spotted Luna from a distance—her pale dress and hair stood out against the greenery. She was weaving her way through the trees when I called out. She stopped, waving cheerfully, waiting as I picked my way over, dodging roots and potholes.
There was only a single narrow path leading past their camp, so we walked it together back towards her tent.
Theirs was easy to spot—bright blue, small but striking, shaped like an eastern pavilion. Classic Lovegood style.
"Luna, why’d you lot come a whole week early when you could’ve just used a private portkey and been here in a minute?" I asked, curious.
"But home isn’t going anywhere, Ron," she replied with a dreamy smile. "It’ll still be there, waiting for us. And it’s beautiful here… You can walk through the ordinary forest, talk, and not have to rush anywhere. And it’s so quiet…"
That’s when it hit me—there was no printing press here. No magazine. No meetings with other magical scholars. Just Luna and her dad, spending a whole week together, talking, walking, and not sharing his attention with The Quibbler or anything else. No wonder she was so content.
I turned down the tea—had only popped by to double-check that she and her dad were definitely heading home straight after the match. Their campsite was way too close to where things were about to go down.
As soon as a bleary-eyed Xenophilius wandered out of the tent, I figured it was time to go. Luna smiled at me as I left and promised to write in our notebook once they were safely home—so I wouldn’t worry.
That was what I liked about her. She never pried like other girls, never dug too deep or badgered me with questions. But she knew when something was off and did what she could to reassure me, in her own way.
I got back just in time for breakfast—and the arrival of my older brothers. And with my mood back to normal, so was my appetite. The sausages and egg sandwiches with fresh greens hit the spot.
Our campsite was right next to the main road, where Ministry officials were constantly coming and going. So most of the morning was spent watching Dad chat with every other wizard who passed by. Some even stopped for tea, had a bit of a gossip, then rushed off again. Personally, I would’ve rather been sprawled under a shady apple tree in the Burrow’s garden, knocking out another test for Flitwick, than roasting in the sun while eavesdropping on Ministry chatter. But no one asked me.
Two things, though, did catch my interest.
First, Bagman let slip that Bertha Jorkins still hadn’t returned from her holiday—even though she was supposed to have been back at work last week. But with all the chaos of the tournament, he apparently had no time to go looking for her. Claimed she’d done this before—disappeared for days on end a few years back. But I still didn’t like the sound of it.
Then Crouch turned up. He barely stuck around, just downed a cup of tea, muttered something about work, and left. But before he did, he gave Harry a long look. Proper serious bloke, that Crouch. If you ask me, he’d be better suited to leading the Department of Magical Law Enforcement than running International Magical Cooperation.
By the time I’d eaten three meals and napped twice, the road leading to the stadium started filling with vendors pushing carts.
Harry went straight for the omnioculars, buying a set for each of us—said it was our Christmas present. Hermione followed suit, picking up programmes for everyone. And me? I went for the big green supporter rosettes—couldn’t exactly turn up without showing some team spirit. We pinned them to our jackets and carried on browsing.
That kept us busy for another couple of hours, but time still dragged. The omnioculars, though? Impressive bits of magic, if the instructions were to be believed. Rewind and replay any moment, adjust the playback speed, built-in commentary, instant name recognition for every move and trick—turns out wizards can keep up with modern tech when they want to. Though, knowing our lot, they probably weren’t even British-made. More likely imported just for the Cup. But judging by the clunky bronze design, they were definitely wizard-made. No way Muggles would’ve built something that ugly.
By the time the sun set, lanterns lit the path through the forest, casting pools of light along the road. Somewhere in the distance, a gong sounded, and at long last, we started making our way to the stadium.
Crowds swarmed past us, pressing in from all sides. Laughter, songs, chants, snippets of conversation—it all blended into a buzzing, electric hum. The air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation, sending shivers down my spine. And then we saw it—
The stadium.
Now, wizards in Britain? Not exactly known for their forward-thinking ways. But what five hundred witches and wizards had managed to build in just a year? It was unreal. I swear, even in my time, back in the year 2000, nothing like this had existed yet—not even in Russia.
The whole thing looked like it had been yanked straight out of the future.
Thousands of lights, a dazzling array of colours, beams of what had to be some sort of magical laser show. Music blasting from everywhere and nowhere at once. Surround sound. Giant floating screens that shifted between advertisements and live footage. This wasn’t just a stadium. It was an event—a full-blown spectacle with every special effect imaginable.
“Blimey,” I muttered, half-laughing. “The foreigners have arrived and brought civilisation with ’em.”
“What are you on about, Ron?” Harry asked, pausing mid-step to glance at me, his wide-eyed stare still locked on the glowing adverts overhead.
“Just thinking back to our first year,” I said, grinning as I took in the scene. “Remember how we had to trek through the dark to get to the boats? You’d think, with all this magic, they could’ve strung up a few lanterns instead of making a load of first-years stumble around in the pitch black. But no—only now do they pull out all the stops. Wouldn’t want the foreigners thinking we’re a bunch of backwards hicks, would we?”
“First-class seats… Minister’s Box,” came a voice from up ahead. “Good for you, Arthur. Your lot’s up two flights, then to the right,” the witch checking tickets informed Dad, ushering us along. “Hurry along now, don’t hold up the queue…”
The Minister’s Box turned out to be fancy. Like, proper fancy—like something out of a posh theatre. Plush velvet seats, gold accents, thick carpets… The works.
And our seats? Right in the front row, directly by the railing. The entire pitch stretched out before us, crystal clear.
I glanced around, eyes scanning the box—then stopped short. No Winky.
That was the second thing that caught my interest. A bloody good sign, too. That meant Imperius was working, and the little house-elf was exactly where she should be—keeping an eye on Barty at the manor. And when Crouch Sr. turned up a little while later and took his seat, I fully relaxed.
In the book, Winky had been holding his place. But she wasn’t here. Which meant Barty Jr. wasn’t here either.
One disaster dodged.
The box quickly filled up with more guests, and I found myself wondering—how the hell had we ended up here? It didn’t take long to work out the answer.
Thanks, Bagman, and your dodgy law-breaking relatives.
The place was crawling with high-ranking Ministry officials, foreign dignitaries, and even the Ministers of both countries.
Fudge greeted Harry like a jolly uncle doting on his favourite nephew—beaming, patting him on the shoulder, and making sure he was introduced to all the big names. He even shook hands with me and Dad, and, to my surprise, managed to dredge up our names from the depths of his memory—including Hermione’s. Percy, meanwhile, was gawking at us like we’d just strolled in from another planet, but Dad seemed pleased with all the attention and didn’t look remotely surprised. He’d known about our little visit to the Ministry.
Malfoy, of course, couldn’t resist. While Fudge was busy making pleasantries with Narcissa, he threw a few digs at Dad, clearly relishing the chance to show off. And Draco? He was playing lord of the manor, pulling faces at us—full of contempt, as if we weren’t worth the dirt on his designer robes.
Thing is, he was wasting his breath. The way I saw it, Dad got us into the VIP box as a favour from Bagman, whereas the Malfoys? They bought their way in—with a donation, of course, not a bribe. Merlin forbid anyone call it that. So if anyone had no business strutting about like a peacock, it was him. Without their vault full of Galleons, they’d be watching from the nosebleeds with the rest of the plebs. But I suppose people like Malfoy always boast about whatever it is they’ve got.
Draco’s mum, though—I had to admit—was stunning. You didn’t see many women in Britain who looked like that. Proper aristocratic beauty, classical features, not a hair out of place. But her presence—that was pure Black. Cold, untouchable, like she was carved from marble. She actually reminded me of Snape—deadpan expression, not a flicker of emotion, but with eyes that saw everything. A strong, sharp gaze that carried the same quiet menace as a cocked rifle. The only difference was that hers were ice-blue, not black.
Honestly? I wouldn’t trade places with Lucius for all the Galleons in Gringotts. No telling who actually wore the trousers in that marriage.
Then, at last, Ludo Bagman burst into the box, all flustered and breathless, and the match finally began.
And what a match it was.
Now, I’ve never been the biggest Quidditch fan, but this game? This was something else. The energy in the stands was electric—people on their feet, shouting themselves hoarse, lost in the thrill of it all. And the game itself? Fast, brutal, precise—nothing like the school matches I’d seen before. This was Quidditch on an entirely different level.
And then there were the Veela.
They did me in completely.
At first, they just seemed like very beautiful women. But the moment they started dancing, something hit me—a raw, all-consuming need. Not like Harry, who just wanted to impress them—no, his was naïve, almost sweet. But me? I knew what it felt like to touch a girl, and that magic of theirs twisted it into something feral. Lust, magnified by a thousand, burned through me, drowning out every rational thought. It was like an instinct—something primal and ancient, clawing to the surface.
Thank Merlin for Charlie. The second he heard the growl rumbling in my throat, he jabbed me hard in the ribs and chucked his jacket over my lap. That snapped me out of it, just in time. If anyone had seen—hell, if anyone had noticed—I’d have died of embarrassment.
After that, I kept my eyes firmly away from the Veela, focusing instead on maintaining my mental shields—thank you very much, Occlumency practice.
The match lasted about ninety minutes, and when Krum finally caught the Snitch—securing Ireland’s win—I cheered louder than anyone.
Not because I was overjoyed about the result.
But because I was rich.
I had money. Actual, proper money.
Drunk on victory and euphoria, we took our time making our way back to the campsite, stopping every few steps to celebrate with someone we knew. Then, after packing up the tents, we activated the portkey.
Forty minutes later, we landed in the field across from the Burrow.
And sprinting across the grass to meet us—arms open, apron flapping—was Mum.
